


to remember this, to remember me

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, First Kiss, John Watson Has Feelings, Johnlock Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, No Angst, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Loves John, THIS IS NOT AN AMNESIA FIC, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, Their Love Is So, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, absolutely no mary or mention of her or drama I swear it, this has no TAB elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 07:08:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5734207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>sherlock holmes is missing two days of his life and for a reason he can't deduce, this upsets john.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. to find you

The dirt under Sherlock's feet is shifting and gathering in between his toes; soaking into every inch of his skin. Gravity lurches forward; spine bending with the motion until he's sure it's going to snap in half at any given moment.

To the right is a door and it occurs to him that it's the only material object in view; he squints against the sun and trudges toward it with feet that might as well be made of cement - this he is sure of; there is a door. He should be disturbed, confused - he knows this but only a deep sense of loss fills the hollow of his chest where a heart should be; strong and viable - pumping blood through vital organs but there is only the absence of something; no.

 _Someone_ that he can't place.

His stomach churns as he twists the knob and steps over the threshold.

If he were expecting anything at all it wouldn't have been this. Never this.

_John._

Sitting in his beloved chair, quietly flipping pages of a wrinkled newspaper, cream jumper bunching around his waist and one leg crossed over the other.

_Crime. He'll read the crime section and fold it up._

Merely being in the same room with John seems to fill the gap - the hollow.

He; the missing, he; the touchstone; he; Sherlock's conductor of light.

"What was so bloody important that you couldn't answer your phone?," he demands as he folds the paper and tosses it to the floor. His brows are furrowed with poorly veiled anger that he'd been left behind; forgotten.

_I could never forget about you._

The flat is just as he remembers it; albeit brighter and now serving as a resting place for John's books that are currently scattered about the sitting room, his pillow on the table _(odd, that.),_ his abandoned mug of tea and a navy blue scarf draped over his own chair.

_Subtle changes, I should remember making them. I was present. I was present...wasn't I?_

"Out. I went out," Sherlock retorts as he hangs his coat up on the peg next to Johns - _us._

"For two days, Sherlock? Mycroft texted me, he couldn't even find you. Hell _I_ texted you, you arsehole."

_Two days. I do not recall them._

"Do you expect me to abandon a highly classified case for the mere purpose of alerting the entirety of London as to my location?"

_He won't suspect a thing._

John sighs and runs a hand over his face - "Look. You don't owe me a damn thing but I'd like it if you left a note at least so I know that you're not being viciously stabbed by an angry fencer or sitting in a jail cell. I thought after everything...forget it."

_My John, always worried. Always concerned._

"Time is a luxury, John."

_And there's never enough._

John's face turns a brighter shade of red; not unlike a flower blooming under the harsh rays of the sun.

_The color suits him but something is wrong here._

"Right. Is that really what you're going with?," John huffs.

_My chair is closer to his than it should be, than it ever has been. Why?  
_

"Yes."

"I had plans, Sherlock. A date, remember? We talked about this?"

_I tend to block out those notions._

"Of course," Sherlock replies as he takes the seat opposite John - _his_ chair.

John's ears look like freshly plucked cherries painted an angry shade of red.

_I wonder what red would taste like._

"I need some air," John mutters as he snatches up his coat and leaves without another word.


	2. to question

It's two days of painful silence later when Sherlock turns to someone he would trust with his own life. Someone who sees past the heavy layers of public personas and unfeeling unflinching masks; someone who loves him even at his darkest.

"Ah Mrs. Hudson! Exactly the person I wanted to speak to," he says with a polite smile - the one that says _I can actually be charming now please give me what I came here for._

Mrs. Hudson pulls the keys out of the lock on her door and pockets them - "Sherlock," she says fondly. "Come in, I'll put on the kettle."

The kitchen is warm and welcoming in contrast to the frigid icy winds outside - it's adorned with knick knacks and everything in the flat gives Sherlock an overwhelming sense of _home_ and _love._

"What were you needing dear?," she asks as she turns the burner on then takes a chair as Sherlock does the same.

_Answers._

"Have we spoken in the last two days?," he questions - palms folded together atop the well worn kitchen table. 

A look of confusion mixed with worry - "I spoke with you not even 24hrs ago. By the way that wine opener you wanted is by the door, I meant to drop it by but you know, it's so easy to lose track of time isn't it?"

_Entirely too easy._

"What did we talk about?"

The kettle shrieks loudly followed by the clanking sound of delicate china cups and saucers - "Well...let me see here...no, not that. _Dancing._ We were talking about dancing; John doesn't know how to."

Sherlock drops a lump of sugar in his tea and stirs with eyes tracing its movement - _mesmerizing how something so plain, so simple can turn tea into a delectable experience._

"What else?"

"I think you said something about lessons and the next time I saw you, you asked for the wine opener. I really should keep more than one on hand," she replies as she looks about the room as if contemplating all of the gadgets she'd like to have more than one of.

Having gotten the answers he came for, Sherlock stands and loosens the scarf around his neck - "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. You've been an invaluable source of information."

"My pleasure dear," she replies with a pat on his shoulder as he presses a kiss to the top of her head.


	3. to remember this

"I need a case!"

John sighs and the creases in his forehead seem to deepen - he's frustrated, exhausted. "You _just_ solved one, Sherlock!"

_Yes but when?_

_Three days since I can't remember those two days and this day where I'm not sure...I'm not sure of so many things._

"What day is it?," Sherlock asks as he paces back and forth from the sitting room table to his chair and back again.

"Tuesday."

"The date, John. The _date."_

_Date...John. John had a date, I ruined it. I ruin everything. But with **who**?_

"The nineteenth."

John huffs and retreats to the kitchen, likely assuming Sherlock is sleep deprived or high or anything that might explain how he's more bizarre than usual.

_Let him think that._

Sherlock follows closely behind - "You said you had a date."

John pauses with his hand wrapped around the refrigerator handle - "I _did,_ yes. You took care of that for me," he replies with a sardonic smile.

"Who?"

"What do you mean _who?_ Who was the date with or who decided it wasn't such a good idea after all?"

The refrigerator door is promptly closed as John breathes in and out and stares at a point just past Sherlock's head; not quite meeting his eyes.

_I should know this, shouldn't I?_

Sherlock steeples his hands and gets that look on his face; the one that John doesn't care for. The one that says 'We both know what the answer is.' But this time he's not quite there yet; he's a puzzle solver. He plucks pieces from nothing and wedges them together perfectly, one at a time.

Recalls minute details; John's best shoes on the kitchen table (scuffed but freshly cleaned - the pair that gives him 2" of height), his nicest jumper carefully folded and sat on the table near his chair, the bottle of cologne in the bathroom with lid loosely screwed on; a note from said date half sticking out of his trousers in the moment where they'd argued and he'd made a hasty exit.

"This person is around 6'0 - rather tall for a woman given that you're lacking in height yourself but I digress. She's very important to you judging by the reaction time and intensity; anger and frustration. Why frustration? Because you're dropping hints and she's not the type of person who picks up on them; she's very high maintenance going by the lengths you were willing to go to just to impress her; your best dress shoes - nice touch. I'm afraid that you'd be disappointed, however, to find that she's the type of woman who would see a man such as yourself and want more but this one doesn't fall in love easily, no. In fact I'd venture to say that she hasn't much experience with the type of relationship you're seeking."

By this point John's lips are drawn into a tight line and he has one hand clenched, the other tightly gripping the kitchen table.

_I don't understand. Where's the 'brilliant, Sherlock!' 'fantastic!'?_

"That's real funny, Sherlock. You're a riot," John replies - he hasn't moved an inch but he feels as if his skin is crawling and he'd love to be anywhere but here at this moment but Sherlock is staring back earnestly as if he's completely lost and hasn't a clue.

"What did I miss?," Sherlock questions.

"It's not...," John presses fingers to his forehead and takes a deep breath, slowly releases. "It's not a woman, you know this."

_Wasn't expecting THAT._

Sherlock fumbles for a moment; blinks back with furrowed brows - "Is that why you couldn't tell me?"

"I thought you'd know," John counters.

"Do I...is it someone we know?," Sherlock asks - a part of him wants to know; _needs_ to know even if it hurts, even if that hollow feeling in his chest is nestling in deep and carving holes in every inch of his heart.

John tenses - "Yes."

_Anderson? No. John would never. Lestrade? Laughable. Mycroft? Not if he were the last man on earth._

From the outside Sherlock is sure he looks as if he's frozen in place; not moving yet digging through files and ripping down shelves in his mind palace but John can't know that. To let it show would mean to show vulnerability and he has let his guard down too many times; exposing soft flesh underneath instead of hard metal and machinery. Too close, he has let John Watson come too close but to regress would mean losing him.

_Cannot lose him. Cannot. Who??? WHO?_

In the midst of his own personal chaos; a hurricane he fashioned together - there is John.

John's eyes softening, a hand on bare skin; thumb caressing the inside of Sherlock's wrist and no one has _ever_ touched him with such care and gentleness. The same hand that had gripped a gun and shot in his defense is light as a feather as if Sherlock were the teapot they'd stared back at from glass casing what feels like ages ago - hidden behind a wall that hid nothing at all with its every angle lit up for all the world to see; beautiful in its complexity but just strong enough to hold without breaking.

It all comes together then.

_'I had a date, Sherlock' 'You ruined it' 'I thought you'd know' 'You were talking about dancing lessons' 'The wine opener you wanted...' 'It's not a woman' ...she's very important to you_

John's voice is low as he moves in closer and wraps the other hand around Sherlock's left arm, caresses - "Sherlock." 

"It was....me wasn't it?"

John nods and stares back at Sherlock and for as long as he lives he'll never get that image out of his head, doesn't want to.

"I...I apologize John I didn't-," he begins.

"There's no need; next time we'll cover the flat with post it notes so that you don't forget but that only works if you don't disappear for days at a time."

_Two days still missing._

_We danced, we drank wine, I promised you a date, we asked Mrs. Hudson for a wine opener and forgot it - the liquor in the kitchen cabinet then. We must've had it._

_I want to remember what your face looked like when we danced, when you told me...when I told you._

_I want that time back._

"I don't remember, John. Can you...can we?"

_I want to remember, help me remember._

"For future reference there's no need to ask," John murmurs as he slides a hand down Sherlock's arm and curves it around his waist; fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt just tight enough.

With heart hammering in his chest (because this isn't just anyone; this is _John._ John who he has loved in silence for so long; _his_ John and he has everything to lose if he has misread the situation) Sherlock bends and cups John's face - stares into blue eyes; notes the brown ring around the iris and how had he missed the way they nearly appear gray at certain angles?

_John is an enigma; so much I've yet to learn - to see, to touch._

"Sherlock," John says, quietly - eyes darting from Sherlock's then trailing down to his lips.

He could kiss him then - could watch the world turn on its axis in the way that it does when John walks in the room or he could take his time. He opts to go with the latter.

_Explore, taste, memorize._

He brushes a thumb over John's bottom lip; traces the creases that he finds there then gently kisses each corner of his mouth; notes that this particular movement causes John's breath to hitch - next he takes both hands and runs them through John's hair and down to the nape of his neck which causes John to shudder involuntarily before Sherlock bends to nip at John's earlobe and finds that red; red tastes like sea salt mixed with the smell of John's cologne - _yes_ , he decides, _red is my favorite color._

John's clothes are particularly restricting and hiding the collarbone he would like to explore with his fingers and mouth so he silently pulls John's jumper over his head then undoes the first four buttons of John's shirt; notes that John's pulse has picked up and his skin is turning a nice shade of pink.

As it turns out, John is rather fond of open mouth kisses trailing from the side of his neck and across his collarbone; makes a sound that's somewhere between a moan and a throaty noise that's entirely _John._

"Come 'ere," John whispers as he wraps both hands around Sherlock's face and tugs him forward - presses their lips together then licks a path across the seam of Sherlock's lips until they part and it's years of pent up longing and passion.

It's coming undone together, falling apart and back together again - always together.  
  


The door closes behind them.


	4. remember me

"Sherlock? I asked if you wanted anything from Tesco - I'm heading out. Mrs. Hudson has some medication she wants me to pick up and...Sherlock did you even hear what I said?"

John buttons up his coat and crouches in front of Sherlock who has hardly moved in the past six hours.

A hand nudging his knee breaks Sherlock out of his reverie - "John?," he asks, confused.

John cocks his head to the side and furrows his brows - "Are you feeling alright? I can pick up some cold medicine if you need any. Do you have a fever? Headache?" He stands and pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket and grabs a nearby pen.

"What's that in your pocket?," Sherlock questions as he stands and plucks the paper from John's hand.

It's a simple list of items for John to pick up when he's out, in Sherlock's messy scrawl followed by a half finished _ibuprofen, bottled water, flu?_ in John's handwriting.

_The note in John's pocket...his shoes. He's wearing his date night shoes, why? We were just..._

"You shouldn't go on that date," Sherlock blurts out. 

"Why do you think I have a date?"

"Your shoes."

John glances at his shoes then back at Sherlock - "Couldn't find the other pair. Also; if I had a date why wouldn't I go on it?"

_Because it's not me and I've finally figured things out, John._

"It's me," Sherlock replies.

John takes the list and stuffs it in his pocket - "What's you?"

_But what if he doesn't...?_

_No. I have to take it, take that leap. For him._

"I'm your date." 

Silently he recalls Angelo's and John's hasty 'I'm not his date' followed by words that spoke the opposite; eyes that couldn't hide his real intentions - eyes that Sherlock wanted to spend forever memorizing.

John shakes his head and smiles slightly - "Excuse me?"

_Stand up straighter, act like you're not scared for Christ's sake!_

"Angelo's, tonight," he takes John's hand and checks the time on his watch then drops it, "It's currently 7:15pm, Angelo's doesn't close until 11pm. We still have time and Angelo will save us a table I'm sure."

John licks his lips and grins once more; Sherlock notes that his eyes are brighter when this happens - "Sherlock. We're not...this isn't...are you asking me out on a date? No that's ridiculous, I have to go. Mrs. Hudson is waiting and I should get going so I'll leave you to it," John begins; nervously rambling on and making for the door.

"John. Would you like to have dinner with me? As my...date?"

_You. You are what I want and I saw it John; I saw everything. What we could be._

John pauses with his hand on the door knob and it's nearly identical to the picture Sherlock had painted in his head only they were in a different room - the note in John's pocket, hand on the refrigerator handle; frustrated and uncertain.

He turns and walks slowly toward Sherlock, eyes soft and hands clenching and unclenching at his side as if he can't decide whether to turn and leave or to let the chips fall where they may and go with it.

"If this is one of your experiments Sherlock..."

_I wouldn't do that to you._

Sherlock shakes his head no and stands with hands at his side; lets John see it all in his eyes; every feeling he could never put a name to - he doesn't turn away or tack a joke on at the end of a damning sentence, doesn't want to. 

He stands, he waits.

He would wait weeks, months, decades for John Watson - however long John needed and if, in the end, John decided that this could never work then he'd spend the rest of the ages standing at his side still - wanting but not taking. Breaking his own heart to spare John's.

John reaches out with a hand that's anything but steady -

_It's okay John, I'm scared too. Truth be told, I'm terrified._

_-_ and takes Sherlock's in his own; sweeps his fingers over bony knuckles and pale skin as Sherlock turns his hand over and laces their fingers together, holds on tight. 

John smiles, a corner of his mouth lifting at one side - a smile that says _I've burned for you for so long and I almost gave up. I love you, I love you, I love you._

 

That night there is a couple huddled together at a table with red and white tablecloth with candle flickering on its center, whispering about Anderson's latest misgivings and stopping every so often to press a kiss to the others hand and for once reality is better than anything Sherlock's mind palace could ever dream up. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'M SO EXCITED ABOUT THIS FIC
> 
> I hope you liked it and the plot twist. I tried to throw in some parallels as well :-)
> 
> for reference http://constantlyfreemaned.tumblr.com/post/97151347550/omg-what-is-martin-freemans-eye-color martin has the weirdest prettiest eyes
> 
> follow me on tumblr for mushy johnlock if you wanna http://mostlikelydefinitelymad.tumblr.com/


End file.
